"I will tell! I will tell. Sit down. The coat--you shall not go. I will say all. Ask what you will. Sit, my little cabbage--a wine in the glass--ah, yes!--and a cigarette. Come, be good. Am I mademoiselle?" "No," said George, smiling on her pleading face, "you are my friend Lola now that you are sensible." "Ah, only friend!" she said sadly. "But I speak. Yes?" George began at once to question her, lest the yielding mood should pass away. "You made the acquaintance of Bawdsey at the hall?" Lola nodded. "He loved me; he sent me flowers; he was made a presentation to me by Kowlaski. I learn that he looks after people, what you call a--a--_un mouchard_----" "A spy--yes, go on." "And I made him watch you. I told him your name." "Did he know my name?" asked Brendon, quickly. "He knew everything--oh, yes--all--all!" Brendon was taken aback. "All--all what?" he asked amazed. "Why--" Lola twirled her fingers--"all what you would not tell to me, my dear. That your names is Vane, and milor----" "Derrington! Did Bawdsey mention Lord Derrington?" "Yes. Oh, many times he speaks of milor. I speaks of San Remo. This--this Bawdsey ask me of the blue domino--of the holly----" "Of the murder, in fact." "It is quite so, my friend. Of the murder of your father." "What?" George started from his seat. "Did he know that the man who was murdered at San Remo was my father?" "Yes, and that it was difficult about the marriages." "That also. He appears to know the whole story. And he mentioned Lord Derrington. That is how he comes to be acquainted with these facts. A spy--Derrington is employing him. And the man is boarding in Amelia Square." George struck his hands together. "By Jove, it's a conspiracy, and I never knew anything!" "I do not wish you to have the marriages right, George," said Lola, with a pout. "If you are as what you are, then you will marry me. She will not be madame." "She? Who?" "The woman you--you--love." Lola got out the word with difficulty and burst into extravagant rage. "But she will not have you. No, you are mine. You will be Brendons--as I know you, and not Vane--never milor. I will not let it. If you are milor you marry her." "Did Bawdsey tell you the name of the lady?" "No. But he will tell. But she is a well-born one, and I am of the gutter. But I love you--ah, yes I love you!" She threw her arms round him. "Be still Brendons, and not milor, and I am yours." "No! no!" George took her arms from his neck and spoke more soberly. "Lola, hold your tongue about what you have told me, and I'll see you again. If you speak, I see you no more." "I will be silent," she said as Brendon put on his coat. "But you are cruel, wicked. You shall never be milor, never!" "How do you know?" asked George, contemptuously. Lola's eyes blazed. "I know. I know. You will never be milor." CHAPTER IX CLEVER MRS. WARD